


the quality of mercy

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Victim Blaming, torture (non-explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor makes one last attempt to reach out to his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the quality of mercy

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't actually mean to write two different versions of this particular canon event in a row, but, well, here I am. I blame not my own lack of self-discipline but [sumeriasmith](http://sumeriasmith.tumblr.com) for suggesting this distressing premise. >_>

You _know_ it's a stupid thing to do. It's just that all of your alternatives seem even worse.

You - haven't _exactly_ told anyone about your plans. In point of fact, you can imagine vividly just what anyone you told them to _would_ say - it's not as if there's any real reason to tell anyone else when you've already had both sides of that argument in your own head, repeatedly, and you know it's a bad idea. You just - can't seem to do anything _else_.

(You think back to Galadriel's _look_ when you had to tell her about Annatar, and - it wasn't even that she _blamed_ you, so much as the pain clear in her face, the realisation that a world you'd thought you could make _better_ was going to drag her into the same battles all over again.

You can imagine the same tone in her voice, easily, if you told her about _this_. And Galadriel never actually _liked_ Annatar; whereas _you_ \- the fact that you _know_ him doesn't make this seem like a _better_ idea. You were never under any illusion that he was kind.)

So, anyway - you don't try to get away.

You could. You could leave, run for Khazad-dûm or Lindon - nobody's getting into the Dwarrowdelf unless the Dwarves want them to, you and Narvi made sure of _that_ , and unhappy as Gil-galad might be with you right now, he wouldn't turn you away if you went to him for refuge. You wouldn't - you don't _want_ to leave Ost-in-Edhil, but you've seen enough valiant gestures that ended in mud and defeat to realise how rarely bravery is rewarded.

And you know that Annatar wants the Rings.

You know - that much was clear, in that awful moment of _realisation_ , when that shock of power struck through all of your own creations, the One Ring, _ash nazg_ , terrible and compelling; an instant when you tore the Ring _you_ were wearing from your own hand before you could stop and think and be lost, caught by a strength that was at once familiar and like nothing you had ever felt before; that had ultimately only one purpose and one meaning: _all this is mine_.

The memory still makes you shudder. It would have been so _easy_ to just - _give in_.

You are _not_ going to just _give in_. Just because - just because you're making the choices you are doesn't mean you're not _angry_ at Annatar. Talk about _stupid decisions_ ; you'd think someone older than the world might have learned to _cope with not getting everything his own way_ in a way that _didn't_ involve creating coercive Works of Power and starting wars.

You still sometimes find the whole thing hard to believe. It's - the armies, the invasion, it's not as if you could manage _denial_ about exactly how bad the situation is. You just still can't - see how you got from here to there, what the steps were that took you from your closest friendship to your creations rendered corrupted and unusable, to war and destruction and ruin.

Whatever happens after this, there are things Annatar has done that are - unforgiveable. People are already dead.

But - you really do _know_ him.

You spent centuries working together. You made the first Rings with him - you couldn't have made them _without_ him, any more than _he_ could have made them without _you_. You collaborated; you argued; you _challenged_ each other.

You both wanted to _help_ Middle-earth, to take the ruins left behind by the War of Wrath and make something brighter and better, something that was _yours_ \- all of _yours_ , for everyone who lived there - and not the undying, unchanging walled gardens of Valinor.

That's not the sort of thing you can just - _throw away_. And you don't think _Annatar_ can, either. You think he's _wrong_ \- you don't think the One Ring can actually be a _good_ way to accomplish anything, not from that brief, unforgettable moment in which its power washed over you - but you don't think he's stopped _trying_.

You think it's worth making an effort to - to try and _trust_ him; to _believe_ what he says about his intentions.

You're still _his_ friend, even after everything. It didn't just stop being true.

***

"But they _should_ be mine, Tyelpe," Annatar says, in the tones of someone being sweetly reasonable in the face of irrational opposition. "You couldn't have made them without me, and I can _use_ them - especially _now_."

He smiles, brightly, raising a hand to show the Ring on his own finger, glittering in the light, a sun-gold gleam of power that you can _feel_ wearing at the edges of your own mind, an inexorable burning force.

You do your best to ignore it.

It's been a _long_ day. It's still late afternoon, but you've barely slept, not since that first rush of attack that came hours before dawn; the pale sunlight slanting in through the glass-and-leadwork lattice of the window panes seems almost unreal, displaced from some other time and location. You're being kept in an old workshop, not far from where you were taken; you might have called it _disused_ , but you think from the scuff marks on the pale stone of the floor that _looted_ might be a better word.

It still makes you angry. You - might have _let_ yourself be taken (that heart-stopping moment of terror and determination when you met his eyes and, deliberately, dropped your sword) but you didn't _let_ yourself lose the battle. You sold the fall of your city dearly; you - even thought there was a chance you might _win_ , for a while.

Still. You - accept that the fact Annatar himself so clearly _wanted_ very badly to capture you alive is at best only a faint, tenuous sign of hope; the point at which you're _relieved_ by _anything_ that involved your home being invaded first is clearly the point at which you've lost sight of any _actual_ reason to be optimistic.

You certainly wouldn't have _chosen_ to have your first real discussion with Annatar in almost two centuries while tied to a chair. But under the circumstances, you'll take what you can get.

"I can't actually tell if you've convinced yourself you're telling the truth or not," you say, "but just because I _learned from you_ really doesn't mean that _everything I make in future is yours_. Not unless _you're_ willing to give _me_ the same benefit - in which case, fine, hand _that_ over and I'll tell you anything you want to know about the Three."

Annatar narrows his eyes.

"The Ring," he says firmly, "is _mine_. But - listen, Tyelpe, this doesn't have to be difficult; do you think I haven't thought this through? If you give me the Three, I can _fix everything_ \- isn't that what you always wanted? To _use_ them to heal this world, after everything that's happened?" He - half-smiles, ironic. "I accept this probably doesn't look like a promising start, but I _can_ still make it all work, you know."

"It doesn't _look like_ \- " You pause, reining yourself in, trying to shove down the surge of rage and grief that threatens to overtake your words. "Annatar, you can't _bring back the dead_. It's - are you not _listening_ to yourself? It's _gone too far_. You can't - this isn't the way to help anything, not anymore."

"I _am going to fix everything_ -"

"I know - I _know_." You meet his gaze with your own; his face looks - set, intent, eyes the same bright glittering gold as his Ring. "Annatar, it's - I _know_ you meant well. That - that you _do_ mean well. But this _isn't the right way_. And you can - it _doesn't have to be like this_ ," you say. "I can't believe I have to have this conversation with you while I'm _tied to a chair_ , can you not see that there's something _wrong_ here?"

"...I accept this isn't really the situation I'd _imagined_ meeting you in again," Annatar says, a faint rueful smile flickering across his face; and for a moment you - could almost forget all the reasons you have to be angry with him, all the reasons you can't just fall back at once into your old easy companionship, the rest set aside. "Look, there's an easy way to sort all this out, Tyelpe. If you agree to _help me_ , we can go forward from there; but I do need you to give me _that much_ first."

"I - _fine_ ," you say. "I _will_ help, actually. Let me up and we can both work out how to contact people about making a truce; I know that - that _we_ started preparing for war as well, it wasn't _just_ you." You _do_ think there's a considerable difference, in fact, between preparing for the worst and _actually invading_ , but - this isn't the moment. "You can still _stop_ this, Annatar. It's not - I'm not going to pretend I'm _happy_ with you right now, but -"

You hesitate, but it's still _true_ , despite everything, no matter what Annatar's done.

"We're _friends_ , aren't we?" you say. "Annatar, this - this doesn't go anywhere good. Let me help you get out of this."

You meet his gaze again, as he looks back at you, and - it _is_ unhappiness you can see in his face, you think; it's not as if _he_ wanted to end up here, either.

The moment stretches out between you, a precarious balance that could tip either way, and you - find yourself holding your breath, _hoping_ beyond everything that he _listens_ to you, that you _can_ still reach him, that out of all this _waste_ there's still _something_ between you that hasn't been lost -

Something - firms, in his expression; you can see him steeling himself.

"If you were _really_ my friend," Annatar says, "you'd want to help me _win_."

He - runs a hand through his hair; takes a step back, in an instant of quick, restless motion.

"And - the thing is, Tyelpe, I really _need_ the Three. So you're going to have to tell me, before anything else."

***

You - genuinely don't understand how this is _happening_.

You're not _delusional_ , you know this is _real_ , but the situation feels - like a nightmare; like a bad dream you're caught inside and can't seem to wake out of; you never _thought_ -

Surely Annatar can't - _wouldn't_ -

The first cut really _does_ feel unreal, for a moment, until the pain starts.

You need to think _sensibly_ , you manage to think, fighting against the rage and horror that threaten to take you over - and, beneath them, a cold current of sick fear. If you can still _talk him round_ \- you need to think about what might be _effective_ -

"Just _tell_ me, Tyelpe," Annatar says, almost sympathetically, watching your reactions. A thin line of blood traces its way down from the knife-blade and across his hand; he doesn't seem to notice. "It's not as if I _want_ to have to do this."

"The hell with _that_ ," you snap. "Just _don't do it_ , then. You are _literally unbelievable_ , do you actually _listen_ to any of the words that come out of your mouth or is the concept of _actual communication_ too difficult for you? Do I need to use fewer syllables? At some point in the last couple of centuries, did you just _forget how to speak Quenya_ _-_ "

"Well, just _tell me where the Rings are_ , then! I _don't_ \- why can't you _just_ \- "

"Right, because you're being _so persuasive about your good intentions right now_ , what an _excellent idea_ this looks like, Annatar, what are you going to do if I _don't_ tell you, do you actually _have a plan_ here at _all_ \- "

You stop, panting for breath as you glare at Annatar.

"If you want me to be helpful then you are _going about this the wrong way_ ," you say. "I can't believe I have to _explain_ this to you."

Annatar - glares back, the light from the window catching in his hair and glinting back from the knife in his hand, mirror-bright steel stained thinly with red; the sun has started to sink lower towards the horizon now, casting angled rays across the bare floor.

"You haven't exactly been giving me much _choice_ , Tyelpe," he says. "I _tried_ persuading you - I don't understand why you won't just _listen_ to me, you say you - that you still believe in everything we were trying to achieve together, but now that I'm making it _happen_ you don't seem to want anything to do with it. Well, I'm _going_ to make it work, whether _you_ believe me or not."

"Annatar," you say, "can you not _see_ that this is just _not the way to achieve anything_? If you - if we still want the same things - "

You pause, trying to swallow back something you refuse to acknowledge as grief.

"If we still want the same things," you say, "then you can't _get_ them this way. This is _wrong_."

And -

You can _see_ Annatar's eyes softening as he looks at you; the thing is that - that he really does look as if he - as if he -

He raises the hand that isn't holding the knife to cup the side of your face in his hand, the touch gentle, and you can't stop yourself from leaning into it, just a little, closing your eyes for a moment at the warmth of his palm against your skin.

Because you _did_ miss him, these past centuries; because what you wanted wasn't just to _stop_ him, but to find out what went _wrong_ , to try and mend everything broken and ruined that lay between you; to _have your friend back_ , the person you thought you knew almost as well as you knew yourself, the fellow-craftsman you worked together with for so long and so well; the one person you liked better, while it lasted, than anyone else you have ever known.

His loss is something you can still scarcely acknowledge to yourself as having taken place; as a disaster that is still happening to you, that keeps happening, terrible and incomprehensible; that you still cannot _understand_ , cannot reconcile with all that came before it.

"Just - _don't do this_ ," you say, softly. "Annatar. _Please_."

"I - _Tyelpe_ ," Annatar says, his voice catching on your name. "I _wish_ we were still friends. I _wish_ you weren't making me hurt you."

***

There are some things no love or friendship or affection can survive.

You try every way you can to - to not think about it, disassociate yourself from the things that are happening to your body; to think of it as _your body_ , as a thing separate from you, that - that terrible things are happening to, while you yourself are elsewhere -

You can't - how long can you keep doing this? You _want it to end_ , but you _can't_ \- it would be _so easy_ to just _say it_ , you _want_ to tell him, you're so _tired_ and it _hurts_ , you can hardly think of anything except how much it _hurts_ -

The One Ring burns on his hand, a bright stab of agony behind your eyes every time you catch sight of it in the corner of your vision.

You don't know how long it takes.

"The _Rings_ , Tyelpe," Annatar is saying insistently. "Just _tell me where they are_ and we can set it all right, I promise, I won't have to do this anymore."

You - swallow, your mouth wet with the taste of your own blood.

" _Set it right_?" you spit out, your words slurred with exhaustion. " _You_ can't - _you_ can't set _anything_ right, _Sauron_ , of course you - of course you haven't _changed_ -"

"Tyelpe -"

" _All you can do_ ," you say, "is _ruin everything_ , you're destroying _everything we worked for_ , you _stupid, selfish_ \- "

"You - _I'm_ ruining things?" Annatar snaps, and it's finally rage you see on his face, at the last. " _I'm_ the only person who's even _trying_ \- I'm _going to_ \- "

And how can he _pretend_ that - that -

"You're going to - _what_? What do you think you can _achieve_?" you ask. "You're not going to get _anything_ you wanted from this - _Abhorred One, Lord of Wolves_ , I hope you _like_ what you end up with. Everything you touch turns to blood and ashes. I hope you find that out. I hope you learn that lesson and _choke on it_."

"How _dare_ you - "

"What _else_ can you do to me?" you ask. Something in your chest hurts when you laugh, a wet grinding pain that makes your vision grey out at the edges.

And what else _is_ there - what else can he take from you, when he's already thrown away everything you ever shared, when Ost-in-Edhil lies in smoking rubble around you, when he took your creations from you and _twisted_ them without ever laying a hand upon them, when everything that lay between you is shattered and ruined, love and friendship made into this futile, broken _waste_ -

"I think," says Annatar, his voice cold and clipped with fury, "that you're going to find out."


End file.
